


The Agency

by Kicker



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Crack, Gen, Swearing, Take Your Fandom to Work Day, Totally Serious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-10 23:17:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7012201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kicker/pseuds/Kicker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(This is an entry for Take Your Fandom to Work Day 2016.)</p><p>After the collapse of Vault 111, a company that manufactured refrigeration systems, Isole is looking for new employment. She's applied for a job at Commonwealth Marketing.</p><p>This is how it goes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Agency

**~ The Interview ~**

The taxi is already moving away as she slams the door shut, swerving out in a tight U-turn that nearly takes out a cyclist. A torrent of expletives fly between the pair, which does very little to calm her nerves.

Her heart was in her mouth already. Now it's somewhere in the stratosphere.

"Calm down," she says, somewhat ineffectively. "Calm down. It's just an interview."

The second coffee was a mistake, she thinks, as she starts walking down the side-street, looking for the door. Her hands are shaking and her head feels like it's floating a few feet above her body, which does at least mean it's a little closer to her heart.

Decapitation sounds like a fairly good option right now.

Okay, she reassures herself. This is fine. Third door down, fourth floor. Just press the buzzer and let it all happen.

She takes a final look around the street. At least three coffee shops, and probably more beyond the huge lorry that's parked diagonally across the road. And directly opposite the door, a bar. Good. She can go in there to drown her sorrows when it's all gone to shit.

No. Positive mental attitude. Hold it together, Isole. Hold it together.

She presses the door buzzer. After a few moments, a crackling voice starts to spit out of the intercom. There might be some words but the speaker is humming and whistling with interference.

"Uh," she says, briefly forgetting how to speak. "I have an interview. At 10:15?"

The voice crackles a little more, then she begins to make out some words. "The lift is right ahead of you, mum. Don't use the stairs unless you can float, ha-ha!"

"Thanks," she says, and pushes open the door.

  
On the fourth floor, the voice is revealed to be just as tinny as it had sounded through the intercom.

"Isole, was it?" says the robot. "If you could just sign in right here, I'll let the interviewers know you're here. I'm Codsworth, by the way. Do let me know if I can be of any assistance. Drink? Snack? Coffee?"

Isole shudders at the thought of more coffee. "I'm fine," she says, taking a pen from the robot.

"Are you sure I can't tempt you to a coffee? Freshly brewed."

On a reflex, she opens her mouth to say yes, but feels the trembling in her hands and shakes her head.

"Very good, mum. Please take a seat."

She sits down on a battered old sofa, strewn with mismatched cushions, while the robot holds a quiet conversation over the phone.

"They'll be right with you," he says.

Just then, a red shape swaggers past her. "Seeya tomorrow, Codsy," says a gravelly voice. "Long day, huh?"

"It's ten o'clock," says the robot, disapprovingly. "Where are you going? Just in case anyone should call for you."

"Oh," he replies, vaguely. "Uh... I'm goin' for a... uh... offsite ideation session. You don't need to tell nobody, though." He tips a tricorn hat, and disappears.

Two more figures appear in the reception. One in a trenchcoat and battered hat, the other in a plaid shirt and jeans. That's good, thinks Isole. The dresscode in her last place had been unusually strict.

The one in the trenchcoat speaks first. "Well hello there," he says, with a pleasant smile. "Isole, right? I'm Nick Valentine and this is Curie. Why don't you come along with us, and we'll get this over with nice and fast."

  
First rule of being interviewed: be positive. Not much to be positive about her old place, but Valentine knows exactly the questions to ask to coax them out of her. She's relaxing into the interview, feeling like she's making a good show of things, when the door crashes open, the handle crunching into the wall in a shower of plaster.

"Fuck," says the new entrant, conversationally.

"Oh, uh, this is Cait," says Valentine. He looks about as perplexed as Isole is startled.

"Managin' Director," says Cait, with a grin. "I don't normally pay a blind bit of attention to interviews, but when I hear you were from 111 I had to see what that shite was about. Bunch of arseholes they were. CV?"

Curie pushes a copy across the desk, with a slightly nervous smile.

Cait casts a glance at the paper and looks up at Isole with a smirk. "So. 240 years old, huh? Lookin' pretty good for it."

Oh shit, thinks Isole. That typo must still be in there. God, she's such an idiot. How did she even get her birthdate wrong in the first place?

Curie tries to break the uncomfortable silence while Cait reads through rest of the document, but is silenced by a single raised index finger. She looks at Isole with a sympathetic expression.

Cait drops the sheet, and rests her elbow on the table, leaning right in toward Isole. "Look," she says. "I'll be brutally honest with you. Says here you've got a law degree, right?"

Isole nods.

"And you were with 111 for less than a year, right?" Cait narrows her eyes.

Isole nods again, swallowing nervously.

"So how am I supposed to know that you won't get tired of us in as little time and fuck off somewhere else?"

Isole blinks, a pit of nausea in her stomach. This is it. This is gone. The job lost, from one stupid mistake, and one crappy job she'd hated from the moment they'd handed her a blue fucking jumpsuit to work behind a _computer_. Why had she ever thought working on refrigeration systems would be a good idea? Oh yes, she hadn't. The whole thing had been a bait-and-switch.

Damn it.

"Because I won't," she says, hotly. All lost now, why not get angry. "111 was a mistake. Law was a mistake. I can't be that unlucky a third time, surely?"

Cait leans back in her chair, fingers idly working at the clasp on her bracers. There's a frown on her face, certainly, but also a twitch at the corner of her cheek, as though she might be suppressing a smile.

"Alright," she says. "You're in. Don't look at me like that, Valentine, I'm MD, I can make that decision. How soon can you start?"

Isole's hands start to shake even more. "Whenever you like."

  
**~ The First Day ~**

The city's streets at 10am are fairly quiet. A few late stragglers in suits, heading for the office. A few gawping tourists, getting in their way. Getting in her way.

First day on the job. She's only had one coffee so far. A much smarter move.

She finds the door, presses the buzzer, takes the lift to the fourth floor. Codsworth greets her again, Cait already standing by his desk.

"I'll give you the tour meself," says Cait, already moving out into the office.

There's a bank of four desks on the left, all wires and screens and box-files.

"These are the account managers," says Cait. "You'll be workin' with them loads so don't memorise 'em too much yet."

"C'mon, Cait," says one of them. White t-shirt, dark glasses. "Give us an intro."

Cait snorts. "Fine. This is Isole, your new project manager we're hiring because you four can't play nice with resource."

Isole waves, and immediately feels awkward and stupid.

Cait turns to her, and points at the four men in turn. "The one in the glasses is Deacon, works on the Railroad account. They do some kind of shady crap, I try not to think about it too much."

The next is beaming at her already. He has a brown coat slung over the back of his chair, and a model of what looks like a revolutionary soldier sat next to his monitor. "Preston," says Cait. "Minutemen. Social housin' and do-good shite."

The next is ignoring her entirely. Dark glasses, again, black leather coat. His fingers continue to tap over the keyboard while Cait talks. "That's X6, works on the Institute, they do bombs or some shite."

"Pharmaceuticals," he says, in a smooth voice, fingers still moving. "Amongst other things."

"Including bombs," says the fourth, with a frown.

"Says the Brotherhood representative," says Cait. "Danse. Brotherhood of Steel and I think you can guess from the name what they're into."

Deacon's leaning over to get her attention. _I'm the fun one_ , he whispers, with a wink.

  
Cait takes her through a little more of the office, more people sat tapping at keyboards. "Over the back here we've got HR. You met Curie before. And this is Creative."

She stops dead. "Where the fuck are Creative?"

The section of desks is completely empty. There are some empty mugs, the scent of coffee and pastries in the air, but otherwise the place looks deserted.

"Curie," says Cait, raising her voice. "Have you got any idea where bloody Creative have gotten to?"

"I don't know, madame," says Curie. "They were here, but now they are not. Perhaps they have a meeting?"

"Not bloody likely," mutters Cait. "For future reference, they pitch a fit if you schedule anything before eleven. Or over lunchtime. Or in the last hour of the day."

Isole blinks nervously.

Cait points at empty desks instead. One covered in books, pens, and the largest thesaurus Isole's ever seen. "Piper's our copywriter. Give her a title and she'll give you a novel. Give it back to her and she might be able to edit it down to article length."

The next desk has a flat cap and at least twelve pictures of a small child on it. "Mac," says Cait. "Researcher. Ask him a question and he'll hunt down the answer like a fuckin' sniper hidden in grass."

The last she points to is covered in snack wrappers and loose tobacco. The screen's unlocked, showing a page of image search results and a game of chess taking place in the left hand corner of the screen.

"Hancock's our resident layabout, otherwise known as Creative Director." Cait smirks, and catches Isole's eye. "Watch out for that one. Don't agree to anythin' he says without havin' some backup."

Isole nods.

"Alright," says Cait. "You'll be wantin' your laptop. This way."

  
At the other end of the office, some alarming crashing noises are coming out of a small room. A single laptop sits on an empty desk.

Cait stands still, not speaking.

"Is this it?" says Isole, after a moment. It has her name printed on it.

"Yeah," says Cait. "But don't touch it 'til Strong says so. He gets a bit funny about this stuff."

The crashing sounds stop, and Strong exits the room.

"Server fix," he says, with a grunt.

"This is Isole," says Cait. "Her laptop ready?"

He nods, and pushes the laptop toward her with one giant finger. The case is dented and scuffed, and one corner has a large crack in it.

"Hey, Strong," says a wiry young man with sandy-coloured hair. "You said you'd fixed this but it's still not working right."

Strong glares. "Ticket?"

"No, I haven't logged a ticket," he replies. "It's still the old problem, the old one's still good."

Strong points his finger directly at other's face. "Ticket."

"Okay, fine," he says, pulling out his phone and tapping at the screen. "There. One ticket."

Strong taps at his own terminal, then nods and holds out his hand for the proffered laptop. He places it on the desk, then smashes his fist into the lid of it. He then picks it up, and hands it back.

"Check," he says.

"I wish I hadn't seen that," says Cait. "But it explains a lot. Strong, is that wise? Do you know how much these things cost?"

"Almost nothing," says the other, opening the laptop and pressing a few buttons, "judging by how slowly they run."

"Don't push your luck, Mac," says Cait. "Or I'll get Strong to pull out your browser history."

  
**~ The Tea Round ~**

Isole's desk is on a separate bank to the account managers, the rest of the workstations unused. Hotdesks, apparently, though they seem pretty cold with the air conditioning blasting down over her.

She pulls her cardigan around her shoulders, and shivers.

"Hey," says a voice. "Newbs are supposed to make the coffee. We've let you get away with it for a few days, but the period of grace is officially over."

Deacon stares at her, or he might be staring at her. Behind those glasses, it's impossible to tell. From this close, she notices for the first time that his eyebrows are a different colour to his hair.

Weird.

She trails him out into the kitchen. Isole hates making coffee. She can never remember orders and she's pretty sure that the moment she touches a kettle, it starts boiling slower.

Damn it. Well, if she makes it badly enough, they won't ask her to do it again. They are very fond of their coffee, here.

Deacon chatters away as he points out all the equipment. He lists off everyone's favourite drinks.

"Don't ever make Curie coffee," he says. "Don't even offer. French, you see, she hates everything we ever make for her. Oh and always give Danse decaff, he prefers it."

He's smirking, though, so Isole raises an eyebrow.

"Okay," says Deacon. "You got me. I just do that to piss him off. Nothing funnier than seeing a big guy like him slumping down in his seat after lunch. Well, except for dosing Piper with caffeine, specially if she's been on the pic'n'mix all morning."

She raises her eyebrow further.

"Don't do that, either," he says. "I never do that. Definitely not. I can't believe you'd think that of me, I'm kinda hurt actually."

He opens the fridge and points out all the things she shouldn't touch. Two incredibly neatly-packed lunchboxes (Danse and X6), a supermarket plastic bag full of berries and fruits and yoghurt (Piper), and an entire shelf of soy milk with the letter S scrawled on each carton in felt tip.

"Strong," says Deacon. "For his protein shakes."

She gets back to the account managers' desks with four empty mugs clutched in one hand, and a steaming cafetiere held in the other. Hancock is perched on the edge of Danse's desk, and seems to be arguing with him about their recent creative plan.

"Then," he's saying. "Piper said 'if they're going to be assholes about it, just use the formula, it's not like anyone's going to read it anyway', so I had a little think and I've come up with a few ideas."

"Go on," says Danse, pushing back his chair and folding his arms.

Deacon nudges her elbow. "This should be good. He's been working on this for _minutes_."

"Well," says Hancock, "first I was thinkin' _8 Things the Brotherhood Own That Would Be Pretty Fuckin' Useful in a Civilian Context, but the Assholes are Hogging it Because They Think They're Better Than Everyone Else_ , but that's too long for the internet. So I was thinkin' _12 Surprising Ways Technology Made the World Worse for Everyone_. Whaddya think?"

Danse doesn't reply.

Hancock nods. "Okay, it's not a very positive message. _Seven Inspiring Songs to Play Before Storming Into Battle Against the Innocent_?"

Danse remains silent, but there's a tinge of pink rising into his cheeks.

"Okay, maybe not. Let's go for the human angle. _A day in the Coat of Arthur Maxson_ ," says Hancock. "Come on, we could give it to minor celebrities and send them out to scowl at people. It'd go viral, guaranteed."

Danse frowns. "No," he says.

" _How to Make a Flight Suit Work for Any Figure_?" says Hancock.

Danse's lips are becoming tighter by the moment. "No," he says.

"Okay," says Hancock, with a grin sharper than even he's been managing so far. " _Five Outrageous Things You Can Do in a Suit of Power Armor_."

Danse looks about ready to explode. Then X6 stops typing, and looks over the top of his monitor. "I would read that," he says, absolutely deadpan.

Isole nearly chokes. Deacon pats her on the back, and leads her back to her desk while the argument behind them gets a little more heated.

"Man," says Deacon, crashing down into the seat next to her. "That was so good I think I need a cigarette."

"I thought I'd die when X6 piped up," says Isole, hiding her laugh behind her hand.

"Gotta hand it to Hancock," says Deacon, twirling on his chair. "He really knows how to wind people up. I might even break my rule and buy him a beer."

Hancock strolls past, looking very pleased with himself. "I heard that," he says. "I'm gonna hold you to it."

Deacon swears. It's pretty obvious that the two don't get along.

"What's one beer?" asks Isole.

"With Hancock?" asks Deacon. "A criminal record and a stinking hangover, most of the time."

She doesn't quite know how to react to that.

"You know," says Deacon, "it's pretty nice over here. Nice and cool, I like how you've got the air con turned up so high. I might come join you."

  
**~ The Pitch ~**

The two account managers are glaring at each other.

"This meeting has been scheduled for weeks," says X6. "You cannot simply take my booked resource because of your own poor planning."

Danse bristles. "It's a pitch," he says. "They don't get scheduled weeks in advance. As an agency, we have to be flexible. I'm surprised you don't understand that by now."

X6 folds his arms. His dark glasses don't help to dispel the illusion that he's not going to back down.

"Okay," says Isole, desperate to diffuse the situation. "Calm down. I'll go talk to Hancock, and we'll work something out. You guys... just chill."

Both of them turn to face her. With hindsight, telling two angry men to 'chill' may not have been the best idea. She feels herself start to quail at them but damn it. She's the project manager.

She turns on her heel, and heads for creative, muttering to herself. She should have told them to chillax. That'd have pissed them off.

She wonders if she might be spending a little too much time with Deacon.

Creative is, as usual, deserted. She gives a helpless look around the room. Only Nick, sat over at his desk, chewing on a pencil.

"Hey Valentine," she says. "Have you seen Hancock?"

Nick looks up from his papers. "No," he says. "Not for a while. But if I were looking for a missing creative, I'd start in the break room."

Of course, she thinks. Beanbags. Natural habitat of a creative.

  
She pushes open the door. It squeaks, faintly, the sound echoing off the walls. Inside, the break room is strangely dark. A large whiteboard has been pushed in front of the window as a makeshift blind. The beanbags are collected into a huge pile in the middle of the room, and there's a slightly darker shape nestled in the middle of them. Over the low hum of the air conditioning comes a faint rhythmic sound.

"Hancock?" she says.

The snoring stops, the pile rustles, and a couple of gold buttons catch the light.

"Is that you?" she asks.

"Shhh," says Hancock. "I'm ideatin'"

"By ideating, you mean sleeping, right?" she says.

"Ideatin' with my eyes closed," he says. "It's a technique I've developed over many years of turnin' up to work hungover. I'll have you know it's very effective."

She walks around the edge of the pile to drag the whiteboard away from the window, letting a beam of sunlight directly into the room.

Hancock grumbles, but shifts over a little, and pulls out a beanbag for Isole to sit on. "What's goin' on?"

She sits on the offered beanbag, sinking down almost to the floor. "Danse and X6 are at each others' throats."

"Oh," says Hancock, grinning. "I was wonderin' when they'd finally realise how alike they were."

"Uh," says Isole, "that's not what I meant."

"I know," says Hancock, "but a ghoul can dream. Frequently does, in fact."

Isole clears her throat. "Anyway," she says, "it's this pitch. Maxson and his team are due to come in tomorrow and we still don't have a deck. Or even an idea to put in it."

"Well if _someone_ hadn't vetoed every single idea of mine, we'd be fine, wouldn't we." Hancock thumps his elbow into his beanbag, and looks a little more satisfied than he should do.

Isole pauses for a moment before carrying on. "Plus X6 is demanding that he get his BAU crap, right now, and refusing to let us borrow Piper for a couple of hours. Mac's with his kid, Cait's offsite, and I don't know what to do."

"Cats," says Hancock.

Isole blinks. "What?"

"Cats," he repeats, failing to elaborate once more.

They stare at each other for what seems like a very long time. But she doesn't feel like pushing him for a response. To be honest, she's starting to get a bit annoyed with him.

Eventually, he relents. "Everyone likes cats, right? Campaign plan: The Brotherhood may be assholes but look! Cats in tiny flight suits. Cats in flight goggles. Cats in teeny cat-shaped sets of power armor. Automatic winner."

She shakes her head. "Come on, Hancock. They'll never go with that. Cats have been done to death. And I've never met this Maxson guy but I can't see the leader of a military organisation going with cats."

Hancock inclines his head at her with a grin. "Well," he says. "We'll just have to see about that, won't we."

  
**~ The Office Party ~**

  
The shoes were a terrible idea. She'd made it into the bar, stood through a bit of initial conversation, but in no time at all her feet were killing her and she'd had to hobble over to a table and sit down. It's probably a good job, though, it keeps her away from the bar. Better safe than sorry.

Cait had put a card behind the bar and gone to sit outside with Valentine. Together, they're responsible for a cloud of cigarette smoke that's drifting in through the door whenever anyone goes in or out. Half of the office is dancing around on a miniature dancefloor. X6 and Danse are playing an extremely tense game of pool, with MacCready officiating, or waiting for his turn.

Isole sits at a table, alone. For a while, at least. After a quarter of an hour of looking at her phone, wishing she were somewhere else, X6 sits next to her, as stiffly as usual.

"Hi," she says.

He shifts in his seat. "You get things done," he says. "I admire that."

"Oh," she says. "Thanks?"

"You don't let people walk all over you," he says.

"It doesn't feel like that most of the time," she says.

They fall into an uneasy silence, both looking out at what's happening in the room. Preston is clutching Curie into a hug, probably telling her how much he loves her. Not that he doesn't tell people how much he appreciates them normally, he's just a bit more effusive about it now. Possibly something to do with the shots Hancock keeps passing him.

X6 clears his throat. "Your glass is empty," he says.

"Yeah," she says.

X6 gets up and walks away, somewhat unsteadily.

She feels a presence on her other side. "I think he likes you," says Deacon in a stage-whisper.

Isole snorts. "This happen after every pitch?" she asks, rolling the base of her glass on the table.

"Nah," says Deacon. "Just the difficult ones. Sooo, all the Brotherhood ones. And the Institute ones. Hell, even the Railroad ones get a bit out of hand sometimes."

"I still can't believe they went for the cats," she says.

Deacon shrugs. "Military are always going to be behind the times. I just can't believe Hancock mocked up a set of kitty power armor so fast."

"He had it already," says Piper, sitting down in the seat X6 had vacated. "He's been waiting to use it since we pitched them in the first place. He used to get it out every now and again just to pet it and say _soon_. Kinda sad, really."

Deacon's mouth falls open in surprise. "Are you saying that was his life's work? Has Hancock peaked? Is he going to have to start doing some actual work?"

Piper raises an eyebrow. "C'mon, Deacon. You know as well as I do that Hancock's always got something up his sleeve. I have no idea what he's hiding up there for the Institute."

Just then, X6 walks up to the table. He carefully places a glass of wine in front of Isole.

"This is for you," he says. After a moment, he leaves, heading back to the pool table.

"Wow," says Piper. "I think he likes you."

Isole feels a sharp jab in her ribs. She frowns at Deacon in response.

Deacon grins. "I didn't mean it like _that_ ," he says. "I mean look at him. Those smouldering looks he might be giving Danse from behind those glasses. Eyes for nobody else. Probably."

"You can hide a lot behind a pair of glasses, right?" says Piper.

"I don't know what you mean," he says, leaning back in his seat. "No idea at all."

The outer door slams open, letting in a cloud of smoke-infused cold air. A dog bounds in, a large German Shepherd, bouncing around Cait's feet like a puppy.

"If you make me spill me drink," she's saying, "I'll have you made into a coat."

The dog wags his tail, and sneezes on her foot.

"Lovely," she says. "Just lovely."

**Author's Note:**

> Any resemblance to people either living or dead is _entirely_ coincidental. I promise.
> 
> PS I am not a project manager, but one of the companions does do my job. ;)


End file.
